High Heels and Low Lifes
by TravisBickle
Summary: Twofaced Tales continues! Harvey Dent, after a chance encounter with another rogue, decides to sort out his love life... or lack thereof!
1. Heart of Ice

This is the second story in the 'Twoface Tales' series. For Cat-Tales readers, it takes place in between "Girl's gotta protect her reputation" and "Heard the latest".  
  
All of the characters in this fanfiction are the property of DC comics. If any big wig from DC happens to be reading, before calling your lawyer please bear in mind that this is fanfiction and that I'm making no money from any of this.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"FREEZE!"  
  
We leapt from the shadows, gun drawn, aimed squarely at the intruder's head. The man didn't look round.  
  
"Hello Harold." He said, sighing deeply. We winced. Other than calling us Harold, this wasn't like Mr Freeze at all. . .  
  
Perhaps it should have come as no surprise to us to find Victor here - we had after all burst into the United States' second cryogenic freezing research centre. We had no real reason to be there other than the number and that we had heard on the rogue grapevine that it had had Falcone funding to get off the ground. Which was a more than good enough reason to cause random acts of destruction for us, even if it was most definitely a 'Harv night'.  
  
Back in College, our friends and we used to decide before hand whether or not tonight was going to be a 'beer night' or a 'spirits night'. When we reached the bar however, it would invariably turn into a spirits night no matter what we had decided beforehand, but that is beside the point. The phrase means that on the given night we would solely drink either spirits or beer. Being the fond fan of symbolism that we are, we have taken this phrase to describe our own activities. A Harv night meant that violence would be avoided whenever possible, Twoface was firmly kept in his kennel, and was also the reason that our gun was equipped with tranquilliser darts and not our usual high calibre bullet.  
  
As a rule, Victor and we greet each other in one of two ways. The first is a cursory nod across the recreation ground of Arkham or as we are lead back to our cells. The second, and preferred, is what we had tried to initiate earlier.  
  
In the criminal world, it is inevitable that one person will get the element of surprise over another. It's how the good guys get us, its how we get them etc etc. When we had said to Victor to freeze (a tired pun, but one that still usually raises a smile if used correctly), we expected him to whirl around, and say something like "Two-chay Harold."  
  
We would then play out a small Western shoot out scene - using our hands as imaginary guns. (Victor came up with that rule after a nasty accident involving Hugo Strange and Victor's freeze ray, which had resulted in Strange spending the next two hours thawing out in Edward Nigma's airing cupboard).  
  
The loser must then declare, "Aah you got me, it's. . . all going. . . dark, must. . . talk. . . like. . .this," or something along those lines, then both parties come together, shake hands and greet each other, usually laughing. Half at the genius it must have taken to come up with that game, and half at the obvious lack of it in those who play it.  
  
As Jack will assure you though, silliness makes the world go round (he didn't specify which way) and this is especially true we have realised in the world of the rogues.  
  
Admittedly it took that somewhat abortive theatre trip you may or may not have read about (either in the press or in our humble memoirs) to realise this fact. Even we managed to see the funny side in Jack and ourselves being forced to flee The Hijinx Playhouse on a tandem bicycle. Ever since then Hurricane Harv (so called because of our ability to punch and our innate skill at getting in a stress at the slightest thing) has given way to Happy Go Lucky Harv. The effects were profound - we smiled more, laughed more - didn't even feel like belting Jack with the nearest heavy object when we saw him. Much.  
  
We had even taken to going for morning jogs, until we realised (on a jog that turned into a full blown run) that we were in fact still a wanted criminal and that the sight of a man with two faces running around Gotham's streets dressed in a yellow head band and incredibly tight blue spandex cycle shorts might generate some Police awareness of his activities. In both senses of the word.  
  
(We'll never forget the time Gilda and we were trying for a baby. Not our idea we hasten to add - we didn't want a little sprog wandering around being sick all over our case notes, but it appeared that Gilda, who had always been the dominant one, had other ideas. The woman at the family planning clinic told us that to increase the male's maximum fertility we must avoid wearing clothes that "didn't allow the little general space in which to command his army". In one fell swoop we lost the use of our cycle shorts. We were completely mortified.)  
  
We'll bet you never pictured us as one of the spandex wearers did you? Holy unnatural bulges Batman!  
  
In conclusion, we were a lot happier. Until that night with Victor anyway.  
  
Seeing that Victor was suitably unimpressed with our usual greeting, we wandered over to him. His shoulders were slumped, rising and falling as he sighed dramatically, no doubt steaming up the front of his glass helmet. He hadn't yet turned to face us. We slapped him on the back.  
  
"What's the matter Victor old chum?" We retracted our hand. He still hadn't moved. And his suit, perhaps unsurprisingly, was cold on our bare skin.  
  
"Tell me something Harold." Freeze said. He stopped and sighed. We winced again. We were not actually named Harold - it says Harvey on our birth certificate, and we have shown it to him, but he still refuses to believe it. He claims that in Eastern Europe, where he is from, Harvey is a derivative of Harold. We are not at all impressed.  
  
(For the record, it actually says Harvey Kent on our birth certificate - our father, fucking Nazi that he is, had both his and our name changed legally when our mother died. He called it a new start or something. Good thing too we suppose - soon after we began working as a Law professor at Harvard, a reporter at the Daily Planet called Clark Kent (you may know some of his work) started making a name for himself. 'And people would surely get the two of us mixed up!', we thought ruefully)  
  
We patted Freeze reassuringly on the back. He turned around. We stepped back with a gasp. Tears had frozen on his cheeks. His eyes themselves told their own story - never have we seen such a look of sadness. And we've seen a few - many of them in the mirror every morning.  
  
"Tell me Harold." He said, quietly. "Do you ever miss. . . Gilda?"  
  
Oh boy.  
  
"Occasionally . . . yes." We said, uncertainly. "Why?" we said, urging ourselves to stop, and that we REALLY didn't want to hear this, "Do you miss Norah at all?"  
  
We really hate Harv nights sometimes. If there's an eighteen foot banana skin on the road, and a sign written and signed by someone saying that there is a path to go around but they would be completely crushed and heartbroken if we used it, then you can guarandamntee that Harv will walk straight into the banana skin, slip up and break his neck. He's so Goddamn selfless! It was the same thing here. Despite our urgent insistences otherwise, he just HAD to go and do the whole councillor bit didn't he? We sure as hell didn't wanna hear Victor's Goddamn sob story - we've all heard it a good five thousand times before. But good ol' Harv, real life's Charlie Brown, just had to go and offer his shoulder to get cried on didn't he? Or hailed on, cos Victor doesn't really cry as Harv's just explained.  
  
That's quite enough out of you! Who's telling this story, me or you? Do you want to sit through 'The Care Bear Movie' again? It will hurt me just as much as it will hurt you, but I'll do it if you don't shut up!  
  
Sorry about that. He's back in his kennel again now, we promise. Anyway.  
  
Hearing what we had said, Victor's eyes filled with tears again. It was surreal - they just trickled down his cheeks, getting slower and slower until finally they froze to his face.  
  
"Oh Harold, of course I do! I miss her so much! Without her I am incomplete! It is like someone has torn away part of me. I crave her like a vampire craves blood. I miss her as you would the sun if you went and lived in Antarctica during the winter months. I miss her the way a wrongfully imprisoned man would miss his freedom. My soul burns for her. Ironic really, imprisoned as I am in a cage of ice. Together, we were water. She was my hydrogen. But now, I, the lonely oxygen particle, am left to fight on alone. And do you know what a single oxygen particle is?" The anger was rising in his voice. "POISONOUS!" he said, bringing his fist in a desperate swing at a nearby filing cabinet.  
  
He impacted into the front with a tremendous clang, a door falling off its hinges, spilling paper all over the floor. He pounded and pounded away at the side of the cabinet, shrieking in agony, until the punches became weaker and weaker, and the shrieking gave way to sobs. Eventually, he collapsed on the floor amongst the sheets, crying softly.  
  
We picked him up under the arms, turned him around so he faced us and held him.  
  
Don't think we are a great humanitarian though. Oh no. Whilst he had been on the floor, we had tossed the coin, unsure of whether to comfort him in his hour of need or sneer at his pathetic emotion. We despise ourselves and our over reliance on the coin. They say Mr Freeze has a heart of ice. We think they have the wrong man.  
  
Eventually he pulled himself together. He apologised profusely, sniffing a bit.  
  
"Harold, you are a true friend. We shall not forget this. Next time your refrigerator breaks down, call us. But seriously. I was so sorry to hear that you and Ivy broke up. Truly sorry. You deserve all the happiness in love in the world Harold, especially after what happened to Gilda."  
  
We were completely taken aback. Our mouth opened and shut like a gold fish. We hadn't thought about it at all recently. Us? In a relationship?  
  
The sound of sirens in the distance reminded us of the current situation. Freeze and we looked at each other.  
  
"Try not to think about her Victor. Just try and chill out OK?" We grinned weakly at him, still thinking about his comments.  
  
"Will do Harold. Two-dleoo." He grinned at us, equally weakly.  
  
All three of us fled the scene. 


	2. Musings

There was no doubt that Victor's words had struck something of a chord.  
  
In fact we thought of nothing else for quite some time.  
  
When Ivy and we had broken up, we simply presumed that relationships and someone with such an extreme personality as ours simply didn't mix. Ivy certainly didn't seem to think so.  
  
You may or may not have noticed that we make very little reference to our wife Gilda. After the resolution of the Holiday murders, and that vile incident in court that made us what we are today, we have not seen or heard from dear Gilda.  
  
She and Harv were soul mates. There's no doubt in either of our minds about that. Which is what leads us to the conclusion that she is more than likely dead. A slightly sobering thought. We presume (perhaps presumptuously) that because she hasn't tried to contact us she must have stumbled off this mortal coil. We don't want your sympathy, although thank you if you were offering. If we started feeling sorry for ourselves about Gilda, then we might look at the rest of our meaningless existence - what we were and what we have become - and drown in a sea of self pity.  
  
Ivy was our lifeline. She was the first woman since the change to show the remotest bit of interest in us (we don't count that whore Potter). It was she and she alone that kept our head above water, if only by the fact that her very presence massaged our ego enough for us to contemplate going on. When that relationship ended we were plunged back into turmoil.  
  
As we said, Victor's words had cut us deeply, mainly because it got the bad blood circulating again. He hadn't meant to, the poor lovelorn ice cube, but he had. Happy go Lucky Harv was forced into an early retirement as Depressed Dent gloomily shuffled into his predecessor's shoes.  
  
Victor, however, was not the main reason we, Prince Hamlet of the Rogues Gallery, found ourselves in the darkest of depressions.  
  
Selina has recently been the one that kept us afloat. Yes we sometimes fight like (ready your groan for the inevitable pun) cat and dog, but at the same time she is our closest friend and main confidante. She herself has experienced loneliness - indeed, she has been lonely most of her life. By helping each other we help ourselves.  
  
And if we're perfectly honest, or more to the point one of us is, we can't help but get a. . . kick out of being around her.  
  
And in one fell swoop that was all gone.  
  
  
  
She was very honest with us about Bruce. That is to say, we presume she had no idea just how jealous we were. Well, not jealous jealous, but most certainly jealous. That doesn't make any sense does it. Sigh.  
  
As usual, we have a couple of problems with expressing ourselves. One. We are crap at it. Two. There are two of us inside the same mind, neither of whom are very good at expressing themselves when it comes to women, so we are crap at it squared. We will give this one a shot as best we can though.  
  
Bruce Wayne was a friend of ours many years ago. We are vaguely the same age (give or take), and as such we were bachelors together in the same swinging period. We forget how we got introduced to each other, but what we do know is that between us we had some pretty wild times and even wilder parties. Whatever you have heard about Bruce is more than likely true, and was equally so for us at that time. The two of us together were an unstoppable force.  
  
But even then, one thing always ground away at the back of our mind.  
  
He was always better. He always had the more attractive girlfriend, did the crazier stunts, and threw the better parties. Don't get us wrong - we had our fair share of gorgeous women including of course the lovely Pamela Iseley - as we knew her then - but it seemed to us that he. . . always managed to out do us on that front. Maybe it was because of his money. We don't know. Perhaps it's a guy thing. It seems trivial now.  
  
But this was what we felt surging through our veins. Red hot jealousy. For completely different reasons it must be said. Twoface always has wanted a crack at the whip. Apologies about the curtness. And handwriting. Fighting him for control. Lewd pussy joke. Mustn't.  
  
Right, that's better. Where were we? Aah yes. I on the other hand felt a sense of loss. I am not stupid. I know what happens to people when they go into relationships. Generally speaking, friends are abandoned in favour of a partner, as we, in our bitter rage, were certain Selina would do. We thought we had lost her forever.  
  
The déjà vu stung a little as well. He had done it again. And it hurt.  
  
"Well, fair play to them both." We spat bitterly once we had got off the phone to Selina. We had been calling her to ask if she was going to come to the Karaoke evening this evening with the rest of us. We had pointed out to her, much to her amusement, that although we could do Sonny and Cher's 'I got you babe' alone, we would prefer it, and look a little less silly, if she would join us. After the usual and expected polite decline, we had then got onto the subject of Bruce.  
  
Exit Happy Go Lucky Harv Stage Right.  
  
***************************************************************** "We are really not sure this is a good idea, Twoface."  
  
"You're never sure of anything Harv, that's why you have us to make decisions for you."  
  
I snorted derisively.  
  
"OK then smart ass, why not flip for it?"  
  
"I think I will!"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Yeah!"  
  
I hate it when he talks me into doing things like that.  
  
Damn him. The coin came up the way he wanted it.  
  
We fetched the clip board, paper and pen whilst trying to block out his gloating about his own intelligence.  
  
We sat down on our brown leather sofa, moving neon green cushions out of our way as we did so. Don't tell us you expected anything less from our sofa? Furniture shopping is an absolute fucking nightmare when there's two of you with such different tastes. Which didn't bode at all well in regards to our current plight.  
  
It could be worse though. Apparently, puce green couches are that particular furniture store's main seller, usually to single young men.  
  
We men really are a hopeless breed aren't we? Anyone with a shred of common sense (in other words a woman over the age of eighteen or a man over the age of thirty) will tell you that a puce green couch in a bachelor pad is probably the most sure fire way of making sure one stays single as it shows a distinct lack of taste.  
  
Which was yet another reason we were resolved to find ourselves a woman. We sat on the sofa, apologising to the High and Mighty for what we were about to unleash on the world, but also pointing out that it was solely Selina's fault. Mainly. Sort of.  
  
Almost scared of what would come out of our own hands, we picked up the clip board and attached the paper. Taking the pen with a shaking hand, we wrote at the top of the page, "Qualities of chicks *scribbled out* womanhood that get us hard *scribbled out* we find attractive."  
  
We drew a line down the page now, noticing that Twoface was really getting into this project even at such an early stage. In the right hand column, we wrote the word Harv at the top. In the left, we found ourselves writing "The Dark Lord of Duplicity."  
  
And they say Jack's ego is out of control.  
  
I went first. I wrote the following, each accompanied by a neat bullet point.  
  
Although most definitely not a primary concern, good looks would be nice. Conventional thinking is not important in this aspect - so long as the woman concerned is attractive to me, then it doesn't matter what others think. Including you Darth Duplicity.  
  
Leading on nicely from that is personality. This is by far the main consideration for me. What is the point in seeing someone if you have little or nothing to talk about? A relationship based on looks alone is not a keeper. Especially as we don't have any.  
  
Sense of humour always has been a turn on for me. She should be able to make me laugh, and I should be able to make her laugh. The way to my half of the heart at least is a nice laugh and smile.  
  
A love of great literature is a bonus although again not mandatory.  
  
Acceptance of my. . . baggage is vital. WhO aRe YoU CaLLinG BaggAGe? *crossed out*  
  
We then, fearing the worst, let him take control of the pen.  
  
Coming to, five minutes later, we found the following scribbles awaiting our approval.  
  
SwEEt Ass. PeACh iS GooD.  
  
GrEaT TiTs.  
  
SKIn tiGht leaTHeR anD WhIp iS BoNUs. OpEn MINdeD attItUde tO bONDagE Is esSenTIaL.  
  
MusT bE wiLLinG to tAke PaRt iN aNd ActivElY enCourAGe ThreEsoMEs.  
  
"Well, Twoface," we said, wincing at some of his cruder terminology, especially the obvious references to Selina, "It looks like we both know where the other stands now. Bearing all this in mind, tomorrow we go relationship hunting!"  
  
"You mean bird watching?"  
  
"Something like that." 


	3. Lipstick and Bruises

For those of you who have never visited Kittlemeier's shop, it is a strange cross between the Dickensian Old Curiosity Shop and an armoury for a small country. The beauty of the place is that you wouldn't think it was anything to look at - a tumbled down little shop in a moth eaten area of Gotham. Inside is another matter.  
  
We stood, perfectly still whilst Kittlemeier poured the thick white moulding material over both of our faces. I had decided, having fairly and scientifically compared mine and Twoface's lists, that there was no common ground between the two of us, and so would take it in turns to attempt to attract a woman. To this end, we inquired at Kittlemeier's about realistic looking Mission Impossible style facemasks. He said he had just the thing.  
  
"Zis is prototype jah?" he said, making it clear to us so that we knew that this may not work. He had insisted on cash up front however, so we stood to lose a lot of money for standing in a cramped little room with white crap all over our faces for a few hours. We grunted a reply that hopefully conveyed our acceptance - we had after all been warned not to move.  
  
"It like scene in Marry Poppins, jah?" Kittlemeier said, saying the first syllable of the nanny's name with a shrillness we didn't know he had, "Don't fall und smudge der drawink jah? Similar sing here. Don't move und ruin der face mask!" We nodded out agreement. He sighed and smacked the back of our legs with a bamboo cane. It was all we could do not to cry out. "Vat did I just say Herr Dent?" We didn't move to respond.  
  
Having your faces moulded is a fairly bizarre experience we can assure you. We couldn't help but feel slightly claustrophobic inside the thick wet mould that hung to our face like an extremely bad kisser. We managed to allay our fears (Kittlemeier's stories of oppression in his home country not helping very much) however by counting sheep jumping over a stile - pairs of sheep of course, a black one and a white one. However, before long the sheep no longer jumped over a stile - in our panicking mind they jumped over the edge of and into a cardboard box. We, in our over imaginative mind the slack jawed yokel Shepherd who stood at the side of the stile, cried out and leaped in after them. Suddenly, the sides of the box began closing in - the roof closed over us - we were suddenly cramped, our knees up to our chest, and the walls were still closing. . .  
  
We shuddered.  
  
A rap on the legs from Kittlemeier (who in our mind's eye was increasingly taking on the image of a schoolteacher whom we particularly disliked) brought us back to reality.  
  
By this time the mask was beginning to dry. It was shrinking, like the card board box of our fantasy. It was tightening, puckering our skin.  
  
We panicked. Soon the mask would shrink even further, causing our face to wrinkle until our youthful good looks (well, on one side of our face anyway) would all be shrivelled away and we would be reduced to looking like a bull dog with a nasty rash on one side of its face (WhO aRE You CalliNg A raSH?!) for the rest of our days.  
  
Twoface, the men in the papier-mâché mask. A modern surrealist ironic remake of that film that came out recently, the one with that brat DiCaprio in the lead, we could make a much better leading man than. . .  
  
And with that Kittlemeier forcefully ripped the mask from our face. The pain was extraordinary. It reminded us of the time we had been trying to grow a moustache and Selina had blind-sided us one day with a wax strip. Except this was ten times worse.  
  
"OW!" we shouted.  
  
Kittlemeier tutted at us. "Don't be such a baby Herr Dent. Zat wasn't so bad was it?"  
  
We looked at him with puppy dog eyes, our bottom lip out and quivering.  
  
"Ach, OK, OK, you can have a lolly pop. You've been a fairly good boy after all."  
  
"Weally?"  
  
"Weally. . . I mean, yes."  
  
"An orange one?"  
  
"Sorry Herr Dent, I only haf lemon."  
  
"Hmm. . . that's fine."  
  
******************  
  
"How comes you get to go first?"  
  
"We've been over this a thousand times Twoface. I'm older than you. That's the short answer."  
  
"That's you're excuse for everything! When are we gonna get a turn?"  
  
"The long answer is that I doubt very strongly that your preferences towards Sadomasochism will be that enticing towards a sweet woman like Magpie. Besides - she isn't really your type in that she's only a C cup I believe. In answer to your second question, hopefully never. Hopefully, Miss Magpie will be so bowled over by my dashing good looks that we won't have to try anywhere with you at the helm."  
  
Twoface snorted.  
  
"Laugh it up Darth Duplicity. You shouldn't mock the pulling power of the Dentmeister until you've seen it with . . . well, our eyes!"  
  
"The Dentmeister?"  
  
"Shut up. Besides, we're at the Iceberg now - I don't want to hear another peep out of you until we get home or it will be Care Bears for you my son. Understood?"  
  
"Yes dad."  
  
With that we pushed open the door and walked down the stairs that lead to the Iceberg's bar area.  
  
Kittlemeier's mask looked great - it was as if we had never been scarred in the first place. To try and give the impression of a nice normal human being we had decided to wear jeans and a brown polo neck. We could have been any man on the street, and we felt great to have some anonymity again.  
  
The woman we sought was talking to Cobblepot at the bar as we entered. As we approached, they glanced over at us furtively, and continued muttering in low voices. Suddenly, Cobblepot smiled at her and stuck out a webbed paw.  
  
"Done!" he said. She smiled at him, and shook his hand.  
  
"Nice doing business with ya Ossie." She said sweetly.  
  
We took this opportunity to remind ourselves of what she looked like. Magpie was a thief, one of The Penguin's numerous flock. She is an attractive woman, (now she had lost the Mohawk she used to have when she had first started out) and would make a great partner for us we thought. As her name suggested, she stole pretty shiny things that were usually bird related and then sold them on to him for a fair price. He would then sell them on again for double what he paid. She of course had not lost anything - in fact, she made a lot of money on the deals - so both parties were happy with the arrangement.  
  
Cobblepot may be a sad excuse for a human being with an unforgivably lousy singing voice (as numerous painful Karaoke experiences had proved) but he was an extremely good businessman, it must be said.  
  
As we approached, Cobblepot jumped off his barstool, losing a good four inches in height Twoface cruelly remarked in our ear, and stared at us inquisitively through his monocle.  
  
"Harv?" he said, puzzled. "Is that you?"  
  
"It's me." I said, quietly.  
  
"But. . . well, no offence dear boy, but you're face. . ."  
  
"I know I know. It's one of Kittlemeier's new inventions. An incredibly life like face mask. He did briefly explain to me how he made it. Something to do with polymers, the Harbour Process, the Nitrogen Cycle. . . I don't know, I wasn't really listening. Science never was my thing."  
  
The Penguin quacked appreciatively.  
  
"So then, Mr Dent as I may as well call you seeing as you've temporarily lost your other half, what can I do for you?"  
  
"If it's OK with you Oswald, I would like a minute alone with your friend Magpie over there."  
  
Oswald looked up at us, a look of mingled pride and admiration on his face.  
  
"Then God speed Harv. May angels carry you and my Magpie on celestial berths to marital paradise."  
  
"Steady on Pengers!" we said in a mock British accent, struggling not to laugh. "We're only going to ask her to come for a drink with us some time."  
  
"Ah," said Penguin, tapping the side of his beak conspiratorially, "so say you Mr Dent. But The Penguin always knows better. God speed." He said, slapping us on the back.  
  
Taking a deep breathe, and fired up by his high expectations, we marched towards our prey.  
  
  
  
  
  
We would like to draw a discreet veil over that particular attempt. Correction, he would like to, but we're sadistic, so we'll throw his failings out in the open for your ridicule.  
  
Suffice it to say, Harv is an even bigger coward then even we had supposed. He wondered up to her looking like a lost child. She looked round at him inquisitively. He coughed nervously.  
  
"Is this seat taken?" he asked, in a tone so full of fear that it would have a casual listener think he was talking to the Blair Witch, not someone he actually wanted to eventually be with.  
  
She looked at the long line of empty barstools propped up against the bar. She sat in the middle of them.  
  
"Guess not." She said. We felt Harv blushing. He sat down reluctantly next to her.  
  
"So then." He said. He paused. "Nice weather we're having isn't it?"  
  
We were appalled. As an opening gambit that rates alongside 'Hi my name's Adolf Hitler.'  
  
She looked at him oddly, smiling a little, and concurred.  
  
Harv rubbed at the back of his neck, laughing a little at how difficult he was finding this situation. Naturally that loosened him up a bit. We filled his mind full of images of Catwoman prancing seductively with that bullwhip, spiteful toad that we are.  
  
Feeling him tighten up as he went along, Harv said in a rush, "Look, I'm really not very good at this - in fact I haven't done this in some time so you can hopefully forgive me for being pretty poor at it. What I'm trying to say in my own roundabout way is that I find you very attractive and I was wondering perhaps if you would do me the honour - no far too formal, sorry - if you would do me the pleasure - no. Basically what I'm trying to say is would you be willing to come for a drink with me at some point? Maybe catch a movie? Come to my apartment for dinner sometime? I've got a fondue set. You like fondue? Look, I'm sorry, I'm really not very good at this, here I am waffling on and on, and I just can't stop because I know that when I do you're going to turn to me and tell me to fuck off and I would hate for that to happen. I hate rejection, I really do. I mean, I'm not going to get suicidal or anything, so don't feel any pressure, although it would mean a lot to me if you would accompany me for a drink sometime. Or dinner. At my apartment. Did I mention I had a fondue set? Are you a fan of fondue?"  
  
She placed a long finger to our lips, smiling. "Shh." She said. We're so glad she did. It was either that or we were going to make Harv punch himself in the face. "Look, Harvey." She said, smiling slightly sadly now, "You're a real cute guy and all. I like ya a lot. But I gotta boy friend already. I'm sorry. And no, I don't like fondue."  
  
"Well. . ." said Harv, in an overly macho way, "that's fine. It was just a thought. No big."  
  
We could feel Harvey's heart breaking. Again. Don't get us wrong - he isn't in love with Magpie or anything ridiculously Hallmark as that. But his own inadequacies, his own crippling lack of self-esteem - they were painfully apparent.  
  
Poor Harvey.  
  
We would feel sorry for him if we didn't have to share the same bodily functions. You try taking a dump with someone everyday for fifteen years and then see how sorry you feel for them.  
  
Anyway. We digress. It was our turn now, and Harv knew it. Besides, he was too tired to fight off our insistences.  
  
We took a quick trip to Kittlemeier's to get our face mask. We had told him to expect us, and he had our new face mask ready for us.  
  
He applied it with his usual expert care, all the while telling us some crappy story, to which to be honest we didn't listen. Why the hell should we? Once he was finished we looked into the mirror he provided.  
  
We cackled. We looked positively frightful. Kittlemeier had managed to give the impression of full facial scarring - we looked like something out of a nightmare.  
  
We felt a new air of freedom and independence. No more Harv tying us down, holding us back. Temporarily anyway.  
  
"Perfect for attracting the fillies." We thought, grinning into the mirror. It looked more like a snarl.  
  
*************************  
  
Hey all - Harv here. For those of you keeping score, I'm back in the driving seat, and it's all thanks to Harley Quinn. Other than leaving me a bit sore, that woman gave me the funniest five minutes of my entire life. I doubt very much Twoface would agree with me, but I just don't care.  
  
He didn't spare my blushes, and I won't spare his. This is how it went down.  
  
We saw the lovely Miss Quinn skipping towards the Iceberg Lounge. He had positioned us in the shadows to the side of the entrance. "Awaiting our prey." As he called it. We gasped. Surely not Harley Quinn we thought. Joker doesn't take too well to people flirting with Harley, even if he does treat her pretty badly himself.  
  
None of this seemed to phase the Dark Lord however. Just as she was about to skip past, he stepped out in front. She cannoned into us, allowing him a quick moment of secret pleasure as her ample breasts pressed against our chest. She landed in a muddled heap on the floor. He lent her a hand to pick her up. As she took it, he whirled her around, holding her in his arms in front of him, leaning forward like some kind of fucked Errol Flynn, doing his best to pucker the bit of muscle that used to be my lip. Harley was understandably taken aback.  
  
"Who the hell are you?" she squealed. Told you she was taken aback.  
  
Twoface continued inching forward for his kiss, saying softly, "All that you need to know my dear is that we are everything you have ever dreamed of. We have a penis so large it often gets mistaken for a canoe and we're not in the least afraid to use it. What say we go back to my place and do it doggy style over an open fire."  
  
Harley shrieked. Twoface smiled as only he can. His smile soon vanished though, as the former gymnast buried a knee into our groin. She wriggled free. He hadn't moved - he was in too much pain. OK, it was shared, but mentally we were laughing like a hyena at his discomfort.  
  
She slapped him hard, across his cheek not mine fortunately, which seemed to bring him back to life. Poor Harley. How could she know Twoface likes it rough?  
  
"I don't know who you are or what you heard mistah, but Harley Quinn ain't that kinda girl! You sick perv!" she squealed.  
  
"So am I to assume that you'll be at my apartment in half an hour then?" he said arching an eyebrow. "I've got a variety of sex toys, although naturally you're more than welcome to bring your own. And do you wish to be dominant or submissive?"  
  
******************  
  
She would later explain to us (as we apologised profusely for his antics and explained the situation) that it was precisely for that kind of reason that she always carries a cattle prod.  
  
She was fairly good about it actually, and we both laughed about the image of Twoface in the foetal position on the floor, shuddering as waves of electricity ran through him.  
  
Fortunately, because he had been in control at the time, the damage to me had actually been fairly light. We decided to avoid water for a few days, and our hair was incredibly static, but other than that there was no lasting damage.  
  
Other than to Twoface's ego which amuses me immensely. 


	4. Disco Dent!

Author's note: As much as I would love to claim credit for the chat up lines in this chapter, I cannot. A Mr Johnny Bravo, of Warner Brothers originally spoke them - If any big wigs from WB happen to be reading please bear in mind I am not making any profit from this so please do not sue me.  
  
  
  
And so it came to pass that we found ourselves nursing a pint of beer, idly stirring it with a straw in the Iceberg Lounge. All face masks were gone now - it was just Twoface, he of coin tossing fame and famous gangster, that sat at the bar, thoroughly depressed. I was certain that at least one of the women we had tried would be interested - but it seemed that neither of our personalities are particularly appealing to the opposite sex.  
  
We stared deep down into our beer glass, but that didn't offer any advice to us either. Wondering if Norm from Cheers ever had moments like this, we were shaken from our musings by an excited giggle.  
  
We turned. A girl had her hand clamped to her mouth apparently in excitement. As we looked at her she smiled a huge beaming grin.  
  
"OhmyGod OhmyGod - you're Twoface aren't you!" she said.  
  
We were about to answer that unfortunately yes we are, when a thought struck both of us. This woman was interested in us. Indeed, she seemed excited to be in our company.  
  
We took her hand in ours, and lightly kissed it, looking soulfully into her eyes.  
  
It seems that on our own, Twoface and I are hopeless at this kind of stuff, but together we're a force to be reckoned with. As much as either of hates to admit it.  
  
"Why yes my dear, we are he. And who might you be?"  
  
  
  
The woman was Roxy Rocket, who at the time we had not met. However, after talking to her for a good few hours, we realised that she simply wasn't for us.  
  
Oh sure, she was attractive, funny, intelligent - in fact, at some point in the future we may well consider seeing her.  
  
But back then, she was hopelessly star struck. Don't think we are being arrogant about this, but we do see this kind of thing all the time.  
  
You know the type. Our entire conversation consisted of her asking how we had felt whilst committing X crime (she knew all of our crimes, including dates and times - a most disconcerting experience) and then, when we responded, "that was so cool". Even Twoface got bored of subtly staring at her breasts, so after a few hours of inane chatter, we made our excuses and left.  
  
*******************  
  
"This is hopeless!" I whined. "Between us we've tried three different methods with three different women, and none of them have worked!"  
  
"Oh for fuck's sake Harv, shut up!" he responded tartly. "No-one said this was going to be easy. But you're more experienced in this than us - you managed to hold down a marriage after all. How did you used to attract women back in the day?"  
  
We thought hard about that actually. It had been a long time since Harvey Dent had strutted his funky stuff. . .  
  
We suddenly remembered. Oh no.  
  
We tried to conceal the memory from Twoface, but found it a little difficult, what with sharing the same mind and all.  
  
His side of our face grinned maliciously.  
  
"Oh no. No no no. Not that buddy. There's no way!" we said, feeling like we were being painted into a corner. We panicked and stuttered, "I don't even know where all that stuff is!"  
  
"Oh yes you do." He snarled gleefully. "You were wearing that junk when you first met Gilda. You're a melancholic old bastard Harv - you'd never throw out something that caused you so much pain to look at out of sheer masochism!"  
  
The fiend had a point, and he knew it. Contrary to what he says, I am not a masochist, no matter how it may appear from the outside - what was slowly beginning to dawn on me however was that I had indeed kept all my old gear. And I knew exactly where it all was.  
  
"Besides Harv," he began, grinning wickedly again, "By our calculations, between us we've tried three different methods of attracting the opposite sex. Now, correct us if we're wrong, but three isn't very easily divisible by two is it?"  
  
We sighed.  
  
This wouldn't end well.  
  
*****************************************************************  
  
Reaching deep into one of the pockets of our dirty old trench coat, we handed over a twenty to the cab driver and told him to keep the change.  
  
He took the money without looking at it, still trying to get a glimpse at our face, which we had kept jealously hidden behind the large lapels of the coat.  
  
"What?" we asked, spitting the words out as if they burnt our tongue.  
  
"Nothing mister." The taxi driver said, still staring at us. "Nothing at all, it's just. . . are those sequins?!"  
  
We followed his eyes and realised that the coat was revealing a little too much of our trouser leg for our liking. We sighed, and handed over another ten.  
  
"You didn't see anything. . . you got that?" we snarled.  
  
"Uh yeah sure thing bub." He said, still staring in confusion at our trousers, perhaps wondering if he had picked up Benny or Bjorn, "But are you sure you wanna get off here? The Iceberg is kind of a rough place to hang out. . ."  
  
"Don't we know it." We said, sighing heavily. We opened the door of the cab and got out, anxious all the while that we didn't reveal too much to the Cabbie - tonight was going to be embarrassing enough for us without the cops turning up to compound our shame. We shut the door with a slam and watched as the cab drove off into the distance.  
  
We stood in the rain outside the Iceberg, frankly unsure of what to do next.  
  
"Well Twoface," we muttered softly as the rain spattered down onto our purple platform boots, "This is another fine mess you've got us into!"  
  
**************** "Hey there foxy Magpie lady." We said, throwing off the trench coat with aplomb.  
  
Judging from the look on the poor girl's face, Magpie didn't know what to make of us.  
  
Oswald did. The minute he saw us, he clucked more like a hen then a penguin and clapped his hands together delightedly.  
  
"Oh Harvey. . . I knew you and my Magpie, the prettiest of my flock, were destined to be together. And look at your clothes - so fetching, so glamorous - so seventies!"  
  
He had a point actually. We had unfortunately been correct, and had kept the clothes we had been wearing when we met Gilda for the first time.  
  
As such this meant that we wore purple platform boots and tight white trousers with sequins running down the seam. Needless to say, the trousers were flared, the flares themselves also covered in sequins. We wore a white waistcoat, and a black shirt, which had flared sleeves and frilled around the neckline, and also exposed a large quantity of our (now slightly balding) manly chest.  
  
Kittlemeier had outdone himself on the facial mask this time - we looked a good twenty years younger. He had even managed to style our slightly receding hairline so that it had a miniature coif at the fringe! The old goat had even gone to the trouble of adding expansive sideburns the exact shade of our natural hair.  
  
The picture was completed by small round Lennonesque purple glasses that balanced precariously on the bridge of our nose and a medallion that looked suspiciously like a large silver dollar. . .  
  
"Well," continued the Penguin, "I was going to save the unveiling of this for a special occasion, but I'm so proud of my pretty little Magpie I can't resist any longer. . ."  
  
Oswald waddled over to the bar, snapped briefly at the hapless Sly, who handed over a remote control. It was snatched by a webbed hand. Cackling, Penguin pressed a button.  
  
With a whirring noise, a panel in the very centre of the roof of The Iceberg Lounge drew back. From the newly exposed chasm dropped a spinning glittering disco ball suspended by a cable. Penguin pressed another button, and the Lounge suddenly became bathed in darkness, save for alternately flashing red, orange and yellow lights, accompanied of course by the multiple lights from the glittering disco ball.  
  
We covered our eyes with our hand as if we had a migraine coming on, not truly believing what we were seeing. We sneaked a peak at Magpie. She seemed equally, if not more confused.  
  
"Well?" asked Cobblepot, a proud smile on his face. "What do you think? I was going to save the surprise for that seventies theme night we have coming up next week. . . but seeing you love birds together, I just couldn't resist it!"  
  
A solitary tear, of some kind of bizarre pride we presumed, trickled down from the Penguin's monocle.  
  
In this environment, Disco Dent (as Twoface was maliciously referring to us) should have been in his element. But that was years ago. Twenty odd to be precise.  
  
We felt distinctly uncomfortable. Fighting the urge to run and never show either of our faces in this bar again, we strutted over to the terrified Magpie as only a Disco King such as we can do.  
  
Making a point of standing so that our crotch angled forward, showing off our groin even further in the tight white trousers, we winked at her. We took her hand and kissed her knuckles, gazing soulfully into her eyes before delivering the killer chat up line.  
  
"Wanna do the monkey with me?" we said, still looking soulfully into her eyes.  
  
Let it never be said that Twoface does things in halves. And there's no hidden double entendre thing in there either - the monkey was a popular dance when we were at college. OK?  
  
Seemingly not.  
  
"Look, Harv, you're a really nice guy and all, but like I told ya last time you were here - I gotta boyfriend already!"  
  
We saw our chance and took it like the merciless hunter we are. Limbering up into a full Saturday Night Fever pose with an accompanying "Hya!", we looked straight into her beautiful eyes and said,  
  
"Well, you look like the kinda girl that could use two! Hya!"  
  
******************  
  
It's true what they say about Mace you know. It really does hurt the eyes, as we suppose it is meant to.  
  
We thought it was a little mean of her to take advantage of the fact that our glasses were slightly down our nose so that we could look into her eyes.  
  
We thought it was even meaner of Oswald to accuse us of bringing his bar into disrepute and barring us for a week. It's The Iceberg Lounge for fuck's sake! Its very existence brings it into disrepute!  
  
We had a little more luck at Harley's house - We had heard on the Rogue grapevine that Puddin' was still in Arkham (which must be a record for him), so we knocked on the front door confident in the fact that we wouldn't have to face his wrath at trying to move in on his girl.  
  
After we had knocked, we stood on the doorstep, the same Saturday Night fever pose as before. After five minutes (in which judging from the assorted banging and clanging she was looking for a key) Harley answered the door. As it opened, and she saw how we were dressed, her usual annoyingly chirpy face froze into an expression of complete bewilderment.  
  
Taking this to be a good sign, we pressed the advantage home.  
  
Stepping forward, we took one long theatrical sniff of Harley ("Mm. . . strawberries!" Twoface mentally remarked) and said with a patented grin,  
  
"Hey there Harley. You smell pretty - wanna smell me?"  
  
We winked and looked longingly into her baby blue eyes. She looked at us, stunned. We looked at her. She looked at us, still unsure what to make of it all. We grinned at her. Our grin fell as she fell backwards back into her hallway laughing hysterically.  
  
*******************  
  
"Hey there Roxy, pretty lady, am I as studly as the statue of David or what? Oh forget it. We'll mace ourselves on the way out."  
  
*******************  
  
Feeling completely dejected, we spent the rest of the week in our dressing gown watching daytime T.V with a bowl of Lucky Charms in ice cold milk at our side.  
  
Do you know why Daytime T.V is allowed to exist? Most people are at work, and so don't know just how awful it is.  
  
The one thought that drove us on during that terrible time was that in a week's time we would be back in our beloved Iceberg Lounge with our supportive friend Eddie Nigma. 


	5. Cahrazy Pool

Edward Nygma had not laughed this much since he had seen that one man stumble over the ten thousand-dollar question on 'Family Feud'.  
  
When asked the question in the final round, 'name a type of ache', the poor man had been so caught in the head lights that he answered, completely bewildered, "Fillet of fish?"  
  
Eddie had nearly given himself a heart attack laughing when the man's brother had answered something equally stupid that involved fish. Eddie of course knew that acetylcholinesterase (or AchE to it's friends - if it had any - and scientists) WAS in fact relevant to fish. In a recent study of the effect materials dumped in the ocean had on fish, the lower brain acetylcholinesterase activity was monitored to try and come to some form of conclusion.  
  
Eddie did not for one moment think the men on the gameshow were clever enough to realise this tenuous link and had bungled it in the spotlight (missing out on the money simply by failing to realise the best answers would have been 'stomach' or 'head'). He laughed because of the acute irony of the situation and in triumph at his own intelligence in recognising it in the first place.  
  
The reason he laughed at us that fateful evening in The Iceberg Lounge was that we had just got to the Disco Dent part of our account of just why we hadn't been in The Lounge much recently.  
  
So much for our supportive friend Eddie.  
  
We swirled the Jacks and Coke that Sly had sympathetically placed in front of us, watching the ice cubes bob beneath the dark surface. We slammed it down on the bar irritably.  
  
"It's not that funny Eddie!" we spat.  
  
He tried to control himself, wiping tears from his eye. "Whew. You're right Harv. You prancing in here like some kind of seventies icon is in fact. . . not. . . the funniest thing I've ever heard!"  
  
And he was off again.  
  
We sighed, and wondered over to the Iceberg's pool table. After fumbling around in our breast pocket for a dollar coin (no, the irony isn't lost on us either) which we needed to work the table, we found one and shoved it viciously into the slot. The balls were released and rumbled down to the little holding area. We began to rack up.  
  
We struck the cue ball with such force that when it cannoned into the pack it sounded like a pistol shot. We noticed out of the corner of our eye some of the lesser known rogues ('gimmick less newbies' Twoface savagely thought) had dived under their tables. The red and yellow balls scattered like people within smelling range of Huge Strange.  
  
Eddie appeared beside us, taking the second cue uninvited, and lined himself up for a shot. His expert shot guided a red ball smoothly into the pocket.  
  
"I don't know what you're worrying about Harv." Eddie said, lining himself up a second shot. "Maybe you just haven't found yourself the right woman yet?"  
  
"Maybe I have." We spat bitterly. "Maybe we let her slip through our fingers like so much sand. Just like the sands of time, ebbing away."  
  
Eddie miscued violently, his shot missing a red altogether.  
  
"Whoa." Eddie said. "Easy cow boy. Don't talk like that Harvey. We both know it's not true."  
  
"Do we?"  
  
"Sure. Maybe your past relationships weren't meant to be? Know what I mean? Perhaps your being saved for greater things."  
  
We snorted bitterly.  
  
"You may have a point there. I mean, the big guy upstairs sure does owe me some luck for that whole 'acid in the face resulting in a life of crime' thing. And what about Gilda - you forget about her? You're lucky. We can't."  
  
Scratching his brow, Eddie looked at us with concern. We slammed the cue into the white ball, sending it cannoning into some yellows. One leapt off the baize, landing on a nearby table.  
  
We went to retrieve it. KGBeast glared menacingly at us and then down at his Goulash soup, which had a yellow ball floating in it. As he glared up at us again, we noticed the flying soup had spattered his clothes.  
  
"What the fuck are looking at, comrade?" we spat at him. Beast's glare deepened, until suddenly his face broke into a smile and a hearty laugh.  
  
"You are funny little man friend Dent. Beast like your jokes and will not be ripping out little man's spleen. You are lucky yes?"  
  
We were about to reply that his breath was a fate worse than having our spleen ripped out when we felt an insistent tug at our elbow.  
  
Eddie lead us back over to the Pool table (we were still snarling like an angry poodle at Beast's laughter). We noticed as he handed us a cue that there were suddenly two shot glasses full of liquid that smelt suspiciously like tequila on a nearby coffee table (that had not been there when we went over to Beast), along with two slices of lime and two small piles of salt.  
  
"Well that's what we're having, what are you having? After all, we got this two fetish thing going on. . ." Eddie wisely ignored our bad tempered jibes and spoke excitedly.  
  
"You ever played Crazy Golf?"  
  
"No - why, what have you heard?" we said sarcastically, as if he had accused us of robbing Gemini Jewellers again. He ignored this too. We think he picked up that trick from Selina. The two of them handle me like dog trainers. A slightly rough dog trainer in Selina's case, it must be said.  
  
"Well, this is a little game I like to call Crazy Pool!"  
  
We clapped our hands together in mock excitement.  
  
"That's great Eddie, because all the paint I was watching has finally dried - I mean, I could go watch grass grow, but I could probably free time in my busy schedule for Cah-razy Pool!"  
  
"Aaw come on Harv! Tequila - it makes me happy. It will probably work for you as well!"  
  
"Was that song being used in the sentence as a really poor excuse for humour Eddie?"  
  
"Guilty as charged your honour."  
  
***********  
  
Ivy and we don't talk an awful lot. You know how it is. When a relationship ends in a veritable tsunami of bad feeling, neither party is particularly inclined to talk to the other. In fact, the last contact we had had was when she had schemed so brilliantly to embarrass us at Mad Hatter's Tea Party.  
  
That being said, it should perhaps come as no surprise has to how we reacted when Eddie suggested we go and talk to her. We, instead of neatly slotting the black ball into the corner pocket and thus winning the game (which would inevitably be followed by some manly gloating and whooping) ripped a nasty looking gash in the green baize with the cue.  
  
We looked over apologetically at Oswald, who was fuming at the bar. He tutted at us like a disapproving parent. Turning to a blackboard he kept behind the bar, he chalked another tally next to our name. This was a new system he was experimenting with since the Disco Dent incident. Essentially, each time a customer committed an act that Oswald took offence to (normally it was the destruction of his bar) he would put a tally against their name (or write it on the board if it wasn't already there). Oswald, who was not a big fan of Baseball, called it the five strikes and out rule. Five tallies would result in a week long barring from the Lounge. Joker for instance had twenty seven tallies next to his name and so would not be back in The Bar for another month or so. Twenty seven offences in (presumably) one evening. The mind boggles.  
  
We now turned to Eddie, scowling.  
  
"Could you please repeat that for us Eddie? - preferably this time in words of one syllable with the content suitably changed to make no suggestion of us talking to her."  
  
"Oh come on Harvey. How long do you intend to be petulant about this?"  
  
"We're not being petulant - you are!" we said, stamping our foot. Eddie gave us a knowing look. We shrugged meekly.  
  
Before we knew what was happening, we suddenly felt a sharp push in the small of our back. We staggered forward, trying to regain our balance, all the while making a mental note to do something unpleasant to Eddie when we next saw him. We teetered, and very nearly fell forward onto the table in front of us. We steadied ourselves using the table, brushing someone else's hand with our own as we did. The hand retracted at our contact. As we stood up, we brushed ourselves down, attempting to maintain some kind of dignity and street cred, all the while looking and feeling like an idiot. The apology we were forming died on our lips as we saw who's table we had very nearly destroyed.  
  
Pamela Isely. Poison Ivy as you may know her.  
  
This wouldn't end at all well. 


	6. Crown of Thorns

Author's Note: I cannot apologise enough to my fanfiction.net fans (if I still have any left after my hiatus). To be honest with you, I had a lot of trouble with the fanfiction.net server and so didn't post this there, saving it for the CatTails website. However, I now realise the error of my ways. Please forgive me. I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as I did whilst writing it.  
  
She glanced up at us and snorted, pretending that she found the leaflet she was reading a lot more interesting.  
  
Don't think, dear reader, that we are arrogant enough to think that a woman like Pam would automatically find us far more interesting than a leaflet on the plight of moss in the Icelandic town of Egilsstadir. . . Correction, we hope she would.  
  
In this instance however, we could sense that our sudden appearance in her life after all this time had piqued her interest. She sniffed disdainfully, attempting to imply completely the opposite.  
  
"Hello Twoface."  
  
Ouch.  
  
"Hello Poison Ivy."  
  
We could almost see her bristling like a hedgehog. Or one of her precious Cacti. We looked over to Eddie. He nodded encouragingly. Feeling like we were slipping into an electric chair, we sat down opposite Ivy.  
  
Here we should probably explain something. Being the Ecowarrior/maniac that Pammy is, she refuses point blank to sit at a normal wooden table - when we were seeing each other she used to claim that she could hear the trees used to make it calling out even in their death and subsequent humiliation. We failed to see what was humiliating about being turned into a table (after all, some hapless trees end up as toilet paper), and said as such.  
  
Which resulted in our spending the next two nights on the fold out couch.  
  
However, at our gentle (ahem) insistence, Oswald was finally persuaded (ahem) to purchase a new table for her especially, one that she and she alone could sit at. We lead her, blindfolded of course, to her new black plastic topped metal table. When the blindfold came off she nearly screamed the house down.  
  
Didn't we appreciate the harmful chemicals given off by companies like the crafters of this table had on the environment? Had we heard of the Ozone Layer? Or the Greenhouse effect? Were we not listening the last 6 times she explained it? Did we not recall the New Year's eve lecture? She could go into it again if we wished, in more detail, with visual aids. Did we know that plastic is a non-biodegradable material, and hence incredibly bad for the environment? Did we realise that they use charcoal to heat the furnaces that shaped this metal monstrosity? Charcoal that has been ripped from its place in the Earth's regenerative cycle? Did we even care about Mother Earth and the survival of person-kind?  
  
We answered that it was just a fricking table.  
  
A slap this time, as well as two whole weeks alone on the couch.  
  
Seeing Ivy wasn't all a bed of roses as you can see (OK, so we're not The Joker, but that doesn't mean we aren't going to use a terrible joke when given the opportunity). The woman who sat opposite us was no doubt beautiful and sexy and anything else one cares to think of when describing an attractive female. But she could be a real pain in the ass sometimes.  
  
"What have you been up to then Ivy?"  
  
"Nothing special."  
  
"Good to hear."  
  
Now, the way we had been lead to understand it, the way a conversation is supposed to work is person one greets person two, person two returns the greeting, person one continues it. Like a board game really - I go, you go, I go, you go.  
  
Ivy obviously played different games. Calm yourself Twoface. She said nothing, allowing the uncomfortable silence to develop into a downright metaphorical chasm between the two of us.  
  
We did the same thing we always do when presented with a chasm in front of us. We put our foot in it.  
  
"Awkward silences and alcohol - just like Thanksgiving at home."  
  
We thought ruefully of Thanksgiving at home as we shamelessly ripped off the gag from TV's Scrubs. A combination of him being off work (ie with me more than usual) and far too much alcohol meant dear old fucking Dad was more likely to carve me up than the turkey. I tended to spend Thanksgiving out of the house, usually in McDonalds with the foreign staff, those of us who didn't celebrate Thanksgiving all together. They because they weren't from this county and hence didn't have the tradition, and me because I had nothing to be thankful for.  
  
The pain must have been written in our eyes at the thought as when we came back to reality Ivy was looking at us with. . . sympathy? From the Icequeen's bitchier sister? Surely not.  
  
She caught herself, and sipped her glass of water cooly.  
  
"There's no alcohol at this table Harvey." She stated. "And I'm sorry about the silence, but I didn't actually ask you to sit with me and you did disturb my reading. If you want to go again, feel more than free."  
  
We were incensed. If that's the way she wanted to play it then so be it. People say we are paranoid. We think they're just saying that because they don't want us to know the truth, whatever that may be. But on this occasion, we feel certain that Ivy was playing a game - a very deadly game known as 'one up-manship'.  
  
And she was in the lead.  
  
We laughed lightly and nodded understandingly.  
  
"You're right Ivy. There is no alcohol at this table. Sly!" he appeared at our table extremely quickly - too quickly - almost as if he had been listening to our conversation in fact. Funny that.  
  
"One carrot juice please good fellow." We paused. "With a dash of vodka of course." It would taste foul, but that was beside the point. It was time to draw level and overtake. "Make sure you grind those carrots especially hard through the cheese grater would you?" A scent of lemon greeted this request. Knowing this as a sign of her anger (and confidant that her usual punishment of sleeping on the couch wasn't applicable here), we pressed the advantage home. "We'd like every refreshing drop of carrot goodness please. Thank you."  
  
We turned to Ivy, smiling politely.  
  
"Well, it's worked for Bugs Bunny all these years hasn't it? And it should help me to see in the dark as well."  
  
"Well, that makes two things Bugs Bunny has that you haven't got Harvey." She said smugly but grinning sweetly, "Night vision and charisma."  
  
It took every last reserve of patience not to snarl, lunge over to her and rip her throat out. Instead we smiled at her (it probably came out as more of a grimace), and said nothing until Sly brought over our drink. We theatrically knocked it onto the floor. In the background, we heard the sound of tutting and chalk on blackboard. (*)  
  
"Oh bother! We do apologise Sly. Please fetch me another - there's a good chap. Put them both on my tab obviously, as well as the cost of the carpet being cleaned. And remember - show those carrots no mercy!"  
  
We laughed jovially (even though it was through gritted teeth) as Sly left and the scent of lemon became stronger. She did an admirable job of controlling herself though - a little shrug and a careless glance down at her leaflet gave the impression of not a care in the world.  
  
We must steal that move.  
  
"So then Ivy," we said, getting greedy - we were already up on her after all, "You never did answer my question - what have you been up to?"  
  
She pouted in thought, and placed her finger to the corner of her mouth as if in deep concentration. An illegal move if ever there was one - whilst we had been seeing each other we had made no secret of the fact that this particular pose drove us mad with desire.  
  
"Not an awful lot." She answered, waving airily as if to suggest nothing of importance. "The usual really. Last week I organised and held a successful demonstration against the Papacy on the very outskirts of Vatican City. Even someone as holy as The Pope should be brought to rights for his heinous wastage of paper in insisting his toilet seats all have paper covers. Oh, and of course there was the demo in Lapland against the usage of pine trees at this particular time of year. They say that a pet is for life not just for Christmas - why then should a humble tree not also be afforded the same luxury? And then there was the answer machine messages by the bucket-load to President Lexy-poo about his misspelling of the word potato in that spelling bee - through his lax attitude towards learning he also conveys the impression that potatoes themselves are not worth any of his valuable consideration. The powerful should really consider their responsibilities to the populace as a whole, certainly someone so powerful as the American President - even if he is a moron. Well honestly, steps should be taken to curb that man's media time. Maybe he could mime his speeches until he comes up with something sensible to say? I mean come on! Doesn't he know that the potato is one of Mother Earth's many triumphs! It has it's place in the natural cycle just as much as you or. . . well, I do anyway, and his ignorance is essentially an act of vandalism against something that is unable to defend itself. Grr! It just makes my Xylem vessels tremble!" She growled, her body shivering in a way that we, despite ourselves, found hard to resist. "Oh yes - and the leader of Greenpeace called a few days ago - something about making me official head of the organisation or something? I don't know - my machine picked it up as Harley was over at the time for an impromptu game of Twister. Pasty Face had been giving her a hard time it seemed, and of course I was only too happy to oblige in the inevitable and yet still amusing verbal deconstruction of the male gender."  
  
She sighed happily, her flame red hair rippling about her pale green bare shoulders.  
  
We for our part were having a hard part containing our desire. Ever since she had begun her little tirade, we had urged silently to leap across the table, land in her barely covered lap and crush her poisonous mouth with rough kisses. But we were not to be defeated so easily. We knew her tricks. Ignoring our lust we returned to the game.  
  
"So, what's this we hear about you and The Cadaver?" we asked innocently, hoping that enquiring about her and another man would take her off the scent.  
  
"The who?" she asked, puzzled.  
  
"The Cadaver." We said, with a laugh. "It's what Selina and we call Ra's Al Ghul. Correction - it's one of the nicer nick names we have for him."  
  
She laughed lightly. We were taken aback. The sound was like a small bell ringing - a genuine spot of mirth from Poison Ivy. We were taken aback.  
  
"Ra's and I? Who told you about that? Well, suffice it to say, the Grape Vine got it right once again." To our surprise, we felt like our heart was about to break. We shrugged off the feeling, knowing it was merely her chemicals beginning to take effect on our innocent blood stream.  
  
Cursing ourselves for the lack of insight in not wearing nose plugs, we made a faintly inquisitive noise that suggested we wanted her to continue. Hopefully it didn't give the impression we actually wanted to know what she had to say - more over we were merely being polite and taking an interest in an old flame's love life.  
  
Naturally, we actually did care, and cared very much as well. Ever the masochist, we ploughed on, knowing full well our heart was in all likelihood about to ripped from our chest like a redundant appendix.  
  
"Oh sure." She continued, a sexy little smile playing about her lips, "He was my thrall for a while. He's got a really big tongue you know." Our heart leapt to our mouth. "He did a damn fine job of cleaning my stiletto's with it." Relief washed over us. We allowed a small smile to creep through our stony visage. The thought of the criminal mastermind licking somebody else's boots was just too good to not enjoy to it's fullest.  
  
"I know you want all the gory details Harv, seeing as you're such a prominent old maid in the gossiper's club."  
  
We resented that comment, and nearly said so. Why, merely the other day we had been talking to Mad Hatter about something that he had heard indirectly from Eddie Nigma about. . .  
  
It's hard to imagine us as a feared District Attorney isn't it? We'll take your silence as a compliment.  
  
"I'm going to have to disappoint you on that front Harv." She continued. Our ears pricked up. "Nothing untoward happened between myself and Ra's. Besides, wouldn't that be like necrophilia or something?" She winked at us seductively. For our part we nearly punched the air in joy and relief. We were therefore caught completely off guard by her next question.  
  
"So what about you Harv? What have you been up to."  
  
"Not a lot. Knocked over a couple of banks here and there."  
  
She sneered and we realised that we had fallen for the oldest trick in the book. Compared to her numerous humanitarian causes and protests, our 'couple of banks' looked pathetic to say the least. It is an unspoken rule amongst exes that one must always come off as being happier and more successful in their new life than the other. Ivy had in doing this struck a heavy blow in the game, one that needed an immediate and decisive response.  
  
"Oh and of course then there was the luscious Roxy. And the irresistible Harley. And not forgetting Magpie. My, who could forget Magpie with her infinitely kissable lips. All three women wanted a piece of the Dentmeister, and it was down to us to oblige. It was a tough job, but we felt we were up to the task."  
  
We laughed nonchalantly, feeling pleased with ourselves. In playing the role of the chauvinist pig, we could really turn on the brutishness when needed.  
  
We felt so pleased with ourselves in fact that we didn't even feel the vine creeping up our leg until it began cutting off our circulation at the knee.  
  
We subtly stole a glance downward. Our shoes and feet were completely submerged in a mass of twisting green vines - as yet thornless so to speak, but a concern even so. One particularly intrepid vine was beginning to snake its way up one of our trouser legs. The scent of lemon was overpowering.  
  
We looked up, straight into the eyes of Mother Nature herself. And Gaia was pissed.  
  
"You're dating again?" she asked, trying to sound composed, but only succeeding in reducing her voice to a frustrated squeal. "That's great to hear Harvey." The vine around the knee became tighter. We winced, despite ourselves.  
  
"Ivy, I'm gonna need that back you know."  
  
"Not when I'm finished with it. And you're leg may not be in great shape either." She mumbled, smiling sweetly.  
  
"Excuse me?" we stammered.  
  
"Nothing dear." She said, the vine gliding ever closer to our half satin and half cotton boxer shorts.  
  
There is nothing like a potentially fatal vine in the vicinity of one's genitalia to stir a man into action. Taking the opportunity with the force that was needed to escape this current dire predicament, Harv was kicked forcefully from the cranial hot seat.  
  
We were in the driving seat, and no coin flip was required when it was a matter of saving Mini Us or facing the rest of our life as a choir boy with a particularly strange case of acne.  
  
"DAMN YOU IVY!" we said, lurching forward, struggling to maintain balance as the vines gripped like limpets to our ankles. It reminded us of the scene in Hotshots! in which Rowan Atkinson tells an understandably sympathetic Charlie Sheen that "They (The Iraqis) have tied my shoe laces together." "Bastards." Comes the profound reply.  
  
Suddenly, our hands were at her small neck. For her part, she merely smiled lustily, as the vine slid ever quicker towards its intimate destination.  
  
"Fight fair Ivy! BITCH! Why can't you just leave your twice accursed chemicals at home along with your bad attitude and acid tongue! We find you attractive OK? There we said it! You don't need to waft that pheromone shit in our face as well!"  
  
Confusion on her gorgeous features. "But Harv. . . I haven't been. . . did you say you still find me attractive?"  
  
Our grip on her neck tightened.  
  
"Fuck this Ivy! Our veins burn with longing to hold you in our arms - a little more intimately than this! We have to fight the urge not to just give in and bury our tongue in your delicious mouth, despite the almost inevitable consequences of us becoming a vegetable afterwards. Literally! Now for fuck's sake go back to your sister's - North, South and East and take your Goddamned slippers with you! You never loved us. . ."  
  
She sneered. The vine had stopped it's ascent as it had reached it's final destination - at least we thought that's what we felt in our boxers. . .  
  
"Fuck you Harvey you cretin. You're just like every other man. Selfish to the end. Our relationship was about sex Harvey! And if you can't see that then you're even more blind than every other member of your gender! Besides, it was your continual bickering that ended us! If there was an argument to be had, you would have it! You even jumped down my throat when I suggested you stop wearing those fucking cycle shorts of yours!" The look in her eyes was one we had not seen in some time. Pure unadulterated passion. We resolved not to give in. "Look Harvey, obviously I like - I mean liked seeing your family jewels, although useless trinkets might be a better term, but why did you insist on exposing them to the rest of the world? And for your information I was a damn sight better for you than that bitch Gilda ever was. . ."  
  
We snapped.  
  
"Is that so? IS THAT FUCKING SO!"  
  
We raised our fist to punch her senseless.  
  
"GO ON THEN HARVEY! YOU KNOW WE BOTH WANT IT!" She shrieked back defiantly.  
  
We drew our fist back. . . but to our surprise, when it flew forwards, it flew directly past her and over shoulder. It buried itself in the small of her back, smoothing out until our hand was pressing her forward into our lusting embrace. In our other arm we took her around the shoulder blades and kissed her deeply.  
  
To our surprise, she was kissing us just as passionately back.  
* - It's an obscure reference I admit. You may remember in an earlier chapter Oswald's new attempt to keep order - putting a mark against a patron's name when they comitted a misdemeanour. After a certain amount, they would be barred from the club. Just how did Joker manage to get twenty seven tallies in one evening is a mystery that remains unsolved.  
  
Author's Note - Chris Dee is responsible for the three statements beginning "Were we not listening the first time" and ending in the visual aids. I thought they were great suggestions so I left them in. 


	7. Lying In Bed

Author's Note - Talking In Bed by Philip Larkin is used completely without permission. Please don't sue me - I'm making no money from this fanfiction.  
  
'The Grape Vine'  
  
The private journal of Pamela Isley.  
  
Tuesday the 27th  
  
As our bodies came to their inevitable resting-places, I leant gently on Harvey's chest and listened to his heart beating steadily. His chest hair tickled my cheek as his chest rose and fell rhythmically. I smoothed it down with my hand. Absent-mindedly I kissed his chest.  
  
He said nothing. I kissed him again, expecting at the very least a sarcastic comment. He still said nothing. Moving softly, I rose to look into his beautiful eyes.  
  
He was asleep. Typical man, I ruefully thought.  
  
To be perfectly fair to the man with the bisected face that lay beneath me, Harvey is anything but normal. Other than his well-documented psychological defects, he makes me happier than any man ever has before.  
  
I guess what I'm trying to say is that it's not just about the sex – despite what I told him earlier. Don't get me wrong – sex is a huge part of our relationship. As you might imagine, it's quite a wild ride for both of us, colourful personalities that we are. But there just seems to be more to it somehow. . .  
  
I rose quietly so as not to disturb my sleeping Deuce. I trod softly on the carpeted floor of his apartment bedroom, conscious that Harvey more than anyone else needs his beauty sleep.  
  
I am only joking of course, dear diary. You above all else know I am truly not the bitch I pretend to be around others. I am the rose, presenting nothing but thorns and barbs against the (mostly male) evils of the world that would pluck its flower for their own enjoyment, not even giving a second thought to the hysterical pain of the flora. . .  
  
I think about this as I quietly get a glass of water – the only real sustenance for a plant.  
  
What am I protecting myself against? To be honest I don't know. Plants require constant care – they cannot be neglected. Could a man such as Harvey be counted on to tend to such a delicate flower as Gaia truly intended? Or would he flee with the first sapling to burst into blossom for him? Yes, it was partly for that reason that I broke up with Harvey the first time. You might remember that four-page poem I wrote to you about it? How I despised myself and my inability to form relationships. Things were just going too well between us. . . It's true we argued a lot, but that simply made the eventual retreat to the bedroom all the more exciting.  
  
I think eventually I broke up with him because I hated the way he had got under my skin. I still do actually. He is a man – I am one of Mother Nature's true followers. By definition we shouldn't get along.  
  
But then... To paraphrase Harvey himself, are we in fact two sides of the same coin? Yes we're different, but are we therefore mutually exclusive? And the conclusion I keep coming to is 'no'.  
  
When he literally appeared at my side after all this time I was overjoyed. Naturally I didn't show any of this – I am after all an Ice Queen, and the only public show of happiness we allow ourselves is when we are crushing someone else. But it was so good to see him again.  
  
I don't know. I really struggle to understand myself sometimes. I blame my hormones. Aside from the usual womanly ones that make me. . . well, me, I also have to put up with my plant urges for nothing more than fertiliser and a spot in the sun.  
  
I finished my glass of water and softly padded back to Harvey's sleeping abode. As I snuggled down alongside him, I realised just how silly I had been.  
  
He and I are two consenting adults having a good time. No more, no less. On the surface anyway. So long as we keep it that way then there will be absolutely no complications.  
  
I nestled in the bed covers. I remembered enjoying the warmth he brings to the sheets. I laid a hand on his hairy chest, yawning heavily.  
  
"Good night, Harvey, my love." I managed to murmur before drifting off into a peaceful sleep.  
  
***  
  
Our eyes snapped open in horror. A cold sweat began forming on our brow and our mouth was suddenly horribly dry.  
  
Did she say what we thought she had said? Gently, we removed her hand from our chest and turned over again, trying to return to our slumber.  
  
But we couldn't. Our mind was racing. We wanted to believe that what she had said was merely idle pillow talk. We truly tried. But something was nagging at the back of our mind. What if what she had said was true?  
  
Annoyed at ourselves, we rose from the bed and made our way over to the kitchen. We grabbed a glass from the table and viciously ran the tap, not caring if we woke her or not. After a few seconds, we shoved the glass under the shooting water and took a sip.  
  
We smiled ruefully as the taste met our tongue. Sweet mandarin. Ivy had been here. It was probably her glass.  
  
A quick note. Ivy's lemon scent is well known both amongst the Rogue's Gallery and, we would suspect, among the spandex wearing fraternity. Generally speaking, she secretes it when she is angered or if she is upset about something. In other words, whenever we're usually around, one can't inhale for fear of choking on lemon Pledge. Mandarin is the opposite – this scent lingers if she is particularly pleased for some reason.  
  
The taste in the glass had been prevalent. We grinned, pleased with ourselves. We don't intend to explain why this revelation made us smirk – we'll leave that mental jump for you to work out. But despite that, her words were still troubling us.  
  
We looked longingly from the refrigerator to the glass of water. The coin was nowhere near grabbing distance, sitting as we were at our kitchen table merely in our boxers.  
  
Contrary to popular rumour (one that we're sure Jack started), we do not have an emergency coin stitched into every pair of underpants we own for situations like this. Although sometimes we wish we did.  
  
Taking the scented glass as a sign, we pulled open the door of our fridge and pulled out a can of beer. We snatched the top off. With a crack and a fizz, the drink was ours for the taking. We took a refreshingly long draught before setting it down on the tabletop, a thought having struck our addled brain.  
  
As far as we were concerned, that night was all about one thing and one thing alone. If the three of us had fun together, then sure, we could do it again sometime. Not like we were complaining too much. In fact, this was one thing both sides agreed on. We were getting our kicks, so we were happy.  
  
Truth be told, Harv was happy too. After his recent spectacular failings with members of the opposite sex, he was more than happy to have finally enticed one in. He was in no hurry to get all emotional with Ivy. Not after the last time. It seemed to him that every time he developed any feelings for a woman, she simply upped and left, probably merely to spite him. Well not this time. The Dentmeister took another gulp of his cold beer, at one with the world.  
  
With hindsight, we have no idea how we managed to fit our ego through the door that night. Call us a mind reader, but we bet you were thinking the same thing.  
  
That still did not answer the Ivy problem however. If she truly was in love with us ('and who wouldn't be?' we thought, again arrogant as a result of getting some at last) and we don't feel the same way, then how do we go about things from here?  
  
'Blind ignorance,' came the inevitable duplicitous answer.  
  
'Thanks buddy,' Harv thought back. 'But that really isn't going to solve anything.' For every emotional high in our experience there swiftly follows a low. We had just hit ours and it had hit back.  
  
Ivy. . . we couldn't lead her on. We just couldn't. How would we feel if she did the same thing to us? Who's to say she wasn't now? What if we were actually spectacularly bad in bed and she wasn't telling us?  
  
We crossed our legs defensively.  
  
'Stop this Harv,' he spat. I hate it when he spits. He can never be bothered to clean it up so I always end up doing it. Yet more time scrubbing floors with rubber gloves on. 'You're so damn insecure. Besides, who gives a damn about her feelings?'  
  
'I do!' I angrily retorted.  
  
'Sap,' he growled. 'Look. There's only one way to settle this. Get the coin. Clean, we tell her we love her, offer to take her to a Pottery Barn, that kind of thing. Or, if you've got the balls for it, tell her the truth. That it's just sex and nothing more. Scarred, you shut the Hell up, go with it and enjoy the ride – you know what we mean. Deal?'  
  
We thought about it. Taking one last swig of beer, we threw the empty can into the trash and rose.  
  
'Deal,' we said.  
  
We stood over her beautiful sleeping form, coin in hand, will suddenly lost. She was so beautiful. Even more so then either of us remembered.  
  
Hearing the jackal wailing in our ear, we flipped - largely to shut him up.  
  
Scarred.  
  
We crept sheepishly back into bed, huddling up along side her for warmth. In her sleep, she moaned slightly, and rolled into our arms.  
  
Few people know it, but we studied English Literature as well as Law at Harvard. To Harv at least, the words of the English poet Philip Larkin seemed particularly apt.  
  
Talking in bed ought to be easiest,  
  
Lying together there goes back so far,  
  
An emblem of two people being honest.  
  
Yet more and more time passes silently.  
  
Outside, the wind's incomplete unrest  
  
Builds and disperses clouds about the sky,  
  
And dark towns heap up on the horizon.  
  
None of this cares for us. Nothing shows why  
  
At this unique distance from isolation  
  
It becomes still more difficult to find  
  
Words at once true and kind,  
  
Or not untrue and not unkind.  
  
***  
  
For some unknown reason, we had kept the personal business card Ra's had given us the last time we had seen him. We must have hurriedly stuffed it into our pocket as we leapt atop the camel in order to flee his accursed country, a legion of natives at our heels. All for suggesting that Joker posed more of a threat to Batman than he did! We didn't even mention the fact that he was nothing but a glorified hairdo.  
  
We say card – it was more like a personal business dossier what with all the prefixes and titles he had managed to squeeze onto it. Someone had crossed through all of the names and titles and simply written in its place, 'Cadaver'. We grinned at the meticulous handwriting. Harv may be a real sap, but he's got quite a good sense of humour from time to time.  
  
We turned the card over in our fingers, suspiciously inspecting the innocent document for signs of coffin mould. There were none. We grabbed a pen from our breast pocket and scrawled our own addition underneath the chess pieces that framed his email address. 'Dead and Loving It' we scribbled.  
  
With a chuckle, we tapped the number into our phone and listened to the ring tone. Within two rings, a voice answered.  
  
"Hello."  
  
"Hey there, we don't suppose..."  
  
"My apologies sir, but you did not let me finish. Hello venerable caller. You have reached the answering service of the great and powerful Ra's Al Ghul, Light of the East, Terror of the West, Apex of the age of Oneness..."  
  
On and on it went. We rolled our eyes on the other end of the phone and made obscene gestures at the handset, all the while trying to sound interested.  
  
"Anointed of Anubis and Osiris – that sounds like it hurt... Chosen of Ra huh? How's that going for him? Phoenix like you say? Always wanted to be one of them. Uh huh... uh huh... what's that? Oh did I? Sorry about that. You could always just leave it as it stands – we both know whom you're talking about. NO – don't start again... Look, all we want it to ask your master if he'd be interested in buying a lovely set on Encyclopaedias... what kind of Encyclopaedias? We were joking, you brain washed simpleton! Oh, go on then if you insist... well, the short version preferably! Actually - would you stay there for just two seconds? Thanks. We'll be right back."  
  
We covered the handset with our hand as the other snaked toward our breast pocket. There was a slight shing noise as the coin arced into the air, a thwap as it landed expertly in our palm, and a torrent of abuse as we saw the result.  
  
"The long version would be... lovely," we managed to say, through gritted teeth, much to the delight of the man on the other end of the phone.  
  
***  
  
Only a man like Ra's could have the sheer audacity to keep you on hold as long as this. It had been a migraine inducing experience to even get this far. We were shuffled from one operator to the next with increasing curtness, each of them introducing themselves as 'Telephone Operator Number such and such' and telling us repeatedly that our call was important to them and that they only wished to serve in as great a capacity as The Demon's Head could offer to an infidel such as ourselves.  
  
Beethoven continued to drone in our ear. Harv is actually a fan of the piece, but certainly no longer. We wondered what the longest time someone had ever spent on hold was, and whether we were nearing it or not. Our instincts told us that we had swept past it a long time ago, as Joker does the line of taste and decency, the white chalk line nothing more than a speck in the distance as he hurtles away from it toward total vulgarity. The earpiece was hot against the side of our head. We growled, rubbing the sweaty surface on Harv's sleeve before shifting it back to the other ear.  
  
Come on Ra's. . .  
  
Perhaps he knew about the nickname Selina and we had given him and was keeping us on hold as some kind punishment. We smiled a wicked smile. Truth must hurt Lurch. Besides, it wasn't our fault the miserable old curmudgeon chose to reanimate himself on as regular a basis as he did. We could almost hear Luigi Galvani turning in his grave. . .  
  
Suddenly, there was a deft click, followed by the calm, measured tones that only a man who captures pomposity and arrogance in equal proportion can muster.  
  
"Dent. Good evening. I sincerely hope this matter is as serious as you claim. You have interrupted the Royal Toilet and now seventeen perfectly good telephone operators will have to be shot."  
  
The Royal Toilet. . . suppressing a snigger, and resisting the urge to ask whether it was here that the Demon's Head was bathed with the Demon's Flannel, we ignored his abruptness and spoke unabashed. The nature of our call was business after all.  
  
"We certainly think it is. It regards Poison Ivy. . ." We held the phone away from our ear, a torrent of Arabic and static flying from the receiver. "Ouch. . .sensitive subject for you obviously. . . We promise. No, your Highness, we promise not to mention her by name again. Two of your finest assassins eh. . . One for each face?! We get the picture! We won't mention her again. Scout's honour. . . Excuse us? Well, no, not really. We went for a couple of sessions, got a second level cooking merit badge. . . Pineapple upside down cake as it happens. But that's not why we called. It is regarding. . . She who shall not be named. If you will forgive our obtrusiveness, we had heard a rumour that you and she were romantically involved. Who told us? Uh. . ."  
  
We thought quickly, rifling in our mind through the various possible gossip queens we could have heard this particular tidbit from. We hit upon the perfect fall guy.  
  
"Joker told us in the Icerberg last Tuesday. No I quite agree – he should be punished. But anyway – I am relieved to hear that you and the Plant Witch are not in any way engaged, your Highness. Why? Well. . . we are not two to gossip. . . but apparently Black Canary has been talking about you a lot as of late. . ."  
  
From down the hall, seductive laughter filled our ears, blocking out Ra's pleased murmuring. Ivy emerged from our bedroom, wearing one of our shirts and very little else. She smirked at us, the lips forming 'the pout', and immediately, chemicals or otherwise, we were her thrall. We pretended to be surprised as a vine snaked up our arm, removing the phone from our less than disagreeable grip, replacing it on the handset. We doubted whether Ra's would be upset, or even that he had noticed our hanging up. The way he had been talking for the past few minutes, he had a new object to captivate his affection. As did we.  
  
As the vines began to undo our belt buckle, their mistress already astride our lap, our ravaged lip stretched into a grin. There was a spark of mischief in our eyes, a glitter of danger in hers.  
  
But then, that was the way all three of us liked things to be.  
  
Ignorance we decided with a smirk at Harv, was most definitely bliss.  
  
The End.  
  
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